


Marvus and Chixie Go to Taco Bell

by Anonymous



Series: Marchix Cinematic Universe [3]
Category: Hiveswap
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Recreational Drug Use, Suggestive Themes, general clownery, this is a Marvus-centric fic so be prepared for all of... that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-07 19:28:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20981147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: After a call from Marvus's juggalo friend, Chixie has to face the most straining test of their moiraillegiance to date: crashing a "clowns only" party and removing her drunk moirail before he makes even more of an ass of himself.It's five in the fucking morning.(Set after Altogether True and Palimpsest, but it's not necessary to read those before reading this.)





	1. Crash and Burn

This is the fourth call you’ve received from an unknown number tonight. 

The frustration you feel at being interrupted from your lyrical process is astounding in its ferocity, burning bright and uncomfortable in your throat. If not for this, perhaps you would have let it go.

“What? Who is this?” you answer through gritted teeth. On the other side of the line, you can hear the raucous sound of some party: the shouts and flirtatious giggling of some drunk assholes mingle with loud music and the sound of splashing water that suggests this is a pool party. If you’re being pranked by someone, you’re really going to fly off the fucking handle.

“Uh, yo…” the accent suggests ‘juggalo,’ and suddenly panic kick-starts in your heart. Marvus? Is he in trouble? What’s going on? The clown on the other end clears his throat before speaking again. “Is this fuckin' uhhh… Chicky?”

“ _ Chixie, _ yes. What’s going on? This is the fourth call from you in,” you check the clock on your laptop, “about 20 minutes. At nearly five in the morning, at that.”

“Aight, well,” he pauses. You hear screaming and desperately hope it’s of the playful variety. “My boy Marvus is getting too turnt sis, you feel me? And I heard you was getting to be his moirail-”

“I _am_ his moirail,” you interrupt. As you’d feared, this is a Marvus Thing. 

“That’s what I up and said girly, listen the fuck up. Ya mans is acting a damn fool, time for you to get to work I fucking think!” He gives you a familiar kind of clownish giggle. If you didn’t know better, you’d think maybe this was Marvus himself playing a prank on you. The only difference is that Marvus is actually funny.

You sigh. “Where is he?”

* * *

“This shit ain’t for you, little one. Clowns only,” the bouncer doesn’t even have to touch you to stop you from entering. A rough, outstretched hand and baleful look is enough to set every instinctive fear of purples coursing straight through you.

“I’m here for one particular clown,” you say, as low and charming as you can. “My moirail is in there and I’m here to take him home.”

“Yeah?” he does not seem impressed as he examines his nails. Clearly, you’re no threat to him. You have the sneaking suspicion that this guy is a real asshole!

“Yes. Marvus? Have you seen him around?”

“No shit,” his face shifts from boredom to mocking cruelty. “Marvus? Marvus Xoloto?”

Though his voice seems friendly- clearly he recognizes the name- there’s something dangerous lurking beneath the surface. This, mingling with the sadistic face he's making at you, has you taking an instinctive step back even as you paint your face in a submissive smile. You really fucking hate this; Marvus is going to get an earful once you get a hold of him.

“Yes! Would you mind just telling him I’m here please? My na-”

He cuts you off. “Funny how you and every other sad sap that came by got him in ya muh-fuckin' grip,” he picks you up gently by the collar of your shirt like a surly kitten. You cross your arms to really let him know how pissed you are about this. It's hard to imagine how ridiculous this might look. “Still, the man’s got a way about him like he got somebody to come home to. So I ain’t finna hurt ya, just to cover my own ass, but you better fucking bounce kitty-cat afore I do.”

You’ve been thrown out of plenty of parties before, but never quite so literally as this. 

There’s an ugly, unkind piece of you that’s used to this anger as you land on the lawnring face first. A piece of you that finds it easy to say ‘fuck this, fuck Marvus, I’m out.’ But you know that quadrants are a series of choices, a path that you follow to the end, one way or another. So you choose to remember his face that time he showed you the constellations while you reclined on the moss together. You choose to remember how he wore socks patterned with his own face on your first date. 

You take a deep breath, then two, before pulling out your phone.

* * *

All night you’ve been worried about him, aching for just a glimpse of Marvus, or just the passing sound of his voice. When he answers your face time call, though, you get almost too much Marvus at once.

“Ayyy my fucking GIRL!” he shouts. He’s so loud that you can hear him in the background of the party behind you; at least your fear of crashing the wrong party can be put to rest. He’s shirtless, in a jacuzzi surrounded by a few other trolls. He’s slouching against a clown with tits as big as his head, laying his head between them. Actually, you get the sense that he may not be aware that what he’s leaning against is a person at all. As he speaks to you, telling you some nonsense about what’s up with this party, he moves his head around and the troll he’s leaned against has to grab him by the horns to keep him from goring them.

“Marvus,” you interrupt. Your tone of voice snaps him back to serious- you must sound truly pitiful. “I got thrown out of that party-”

“Oh shizz you’re here? Hells yeah baby let’s get fucking bumpin'!” he starts laughing and waving his drink around along with, unfortunately, his phone. You’re starting to get dizzy just watching your screen. “Who’s keepin' ya from me tho? Not gonna lie you ain’t dressed for a partly like this baby girl, but maybe you-”

“No I got _thrown_ out. Like, picked up and tossed.” You quickly recount the events leading up to this face time call.

“Damn, he knows he’s wrong for dat,” Marvus considers for a moment before somebody passes him a drink. His face lights up- it’s unreal how stupid jealous you feel towards that drink. “Wonder who called you up tho. Calling me out of control- wack! Ain’t that right babe?” he looks up to the clown with big tits for approval and spills his drink all over them. So much for charismatic superstar. That clown on the phone was right: Marvus really is a mess. 

Instead of doing his ‘tch, maaan’ thing that Marvus does when something mildly irritates him, Marvus just laughs and laughs and laughs. That small seed of worry is blossoming into a huge prickly cactus of anxiety. This isn’t just drunk Marvus, you’ve seen that and you’ve enjoyed that. You wonder what he’s been doing all night, and if he’d be able to tell you what he’s been taking if something happens to him. And maybe you’re about to crash an orgy. God, you just really aren’t up for that tonight. Your racing thoughts are interrupted as he pushes his face into this poor trolls chest and tries slurping up his spilled drink. Your face time call is ended as they push him- drink, phone, and face-paint all- into the water of the jacuzzi. 

Another surge of frustration, another choice you make. You kick at some gravel, letting out some steam, before heading to the side door.

You’re going to make the best of this. If you’re going to crash a party filled with drunk, murderous clowns, you’re going to have your fun on your way down.

* * *

The bouncer at the side door isn’t as uptight as the guy at the front; you suppose that makes sense. Anyone stupid enough to try to muscle their way into a party through the front door might be oinkbeast-headed enough to start a fight.

“Can I go in?” you ask tentatively, as she doesn’t say a word to you.

“You ain't heard from tha front? Party’s clowns only, cuz,” she turns her back to you- you hear the distinctive sound of a lighter flick, then some mysterious bubbly sound- before she turns back to you. As she speaks, smoke filters from her mouth and her nose, captivating you. “So, you down? Down with the clown, bitch?”

You think about Marvus. Sure, yeah, you’re down with _a_ clown, you guess. “Yeah, I’m down. On Mondays, Tuesdays…” you trail off as she raises an unimpressed brow at you, smirking as if she’s unsure if you’re joking. “Or maybe till I’m dead in the ground!” You shout this last part as loudly as you dare, pumping your fist in the air.

She ‘whoop whoop’s at you before clasping you on the shoulder, laughing and pulling you towards the wooden gate that separates the party outside from the real world. You get the sense that leaving the party without Marvus is going to be a lot tougher than getting into it was. He better start praying to his messiahs that you find him fast.

As if sensing your anxiety, your new sister offers you some of her. Uh. Marijuana. You take a look at her… rig, you guess: a faygo bottle shoved into the left half of a pair of Doc Martens, spouting out a hole at the tip of the toe where you suppose you suck the smoke from. You look down to her feet. As you’d expected- perhaps feared is the better word here- the right boot is on her right foot, and her left is clad in a bloody white sock. A shiver runs through you at the sight. That’s just awful, she could have at least taken the sock off. You imagine the squelch of a wet, bloody sock and nearly faint from discomfort.

You decline the drugs and she shrugs before taking another hit. As the smoke filters from her mouth, right into your face, she unlocks the gate for you. You do everything in your power to suppress a cough, lest it offend your tentative friendship with this jester.

For a moment, your world goes white. Then, there’s nothing.


	2. Fiona and Shrek

Chucklevoodoos assault you from all sides, lighting up your thinkpan in shades of pink and purple. It takes you a moment, but as your mind adjusts to being hot-wired, your eyes adjust to the sights before you.

Above you, in golds and white polka dots and more colors than you can count, are hundreds of balloons held in place by industrial black netting. The flash of the strobe lights and disco balls reflect off of these, giving everything an eerie iridescence and lighting up everyone’s features. You wonder if this is what hell is like, with all of these unfamiliar faces surrounding you. The trolls around you are unrecognizable as members of your own species as the whites of their face paint shift from color to color under the lights.

Within minutes, the sounds of the party come back to you. All at once, you realize the voodoos aren’t directed at you, necessarily. They’re just around you: indominate, indiscriminate, intimate. Highbloods everywhere are letting their psychic prowess fill the empty spaces between them, searching for closeness. Searching for family. It’s almost sad, once you realize how disconnected you are almost immediately. _ Clowns only,_ you remember. Of course.

Knowing you aren’t under attack or surveillance soothes the nerves somewhat. And haven’t you explored this world with Marvus before? Aren’t you both making the effort to share your lives with each other? Marvus wouldn’t put you in danger, and you have to trust that his friend wouldn’t have called you if you would meet harm here.

When one clown, face painted in a rictus grin, hands you a fruity purple drink, you accept it and down it in one go.

* * *

The grind of wheels against the concrete of the empty pool rushes in your ears before those same wheels are spinning inches from your face, spraying gravel all around you. You whoop and cheer along with the crowd as the skateboarder shifts his weight from his toes to his heels and descends back into the pit. You watch him gather momentum, more momentum than you thought possible on a skateboard, before he’s up, backflipping over the other side of the crowd with a sweet catch of his board. As he reaches the height of his jump, he catches a flaming stick from one of the jugglers in the crowd, blowing flames in the air above him like a phoenix, like a dragon. The heat of his breath pops the balloons caught in the black netting, raining candy and confetti down on the crowd.

It’s easy to get caught up in the manic energy of the party. Though you aren’t psychic yourself, you feel connected to these people. It’s easy to imagine how clowns have formed such a secular community; it’s difficult to leave your new friends behind.

Still, your worry for Marvus leads you blindly around the crowd, searching for him. You haven’t heard his voice since you stepped through the back gate, and even watching these skateboarders do their insane tricks doesn’t interest you enough to keep you from him.

You dance a bit, finding that the easiest way through the dense crowds of jesters is to join them and move with them. They all seem to find you fascinating, touching your warm skin with their clammy hands and staring at your unpainted face with wonder. There’s a part of you that’s desperately trying to convince yourself that the attention is flattering, that you’re somehow safe as long as you’re a curiosity here. But, still, you feel othered. You almost feel ashamed of yourself, thinking of them as another species the way you did earlier, now that you know how it feels to experience it.

But mostly you’re just a weird mix of having fun by losing bits and pieces of yourself in the party, and absolute frothing fury. You push those aside as a familiar face lights up in recognition from the other side of the crowd: Mimika, that mime girl from the hot dog stand. Or, uh, rocket dog? You still don’t know the difference. 

She beckons you over, waving to you over the crowd. You dance and shimmy and shake your way over (and, you notice that you _are_ having fun despite yourself, once your novelty has worn off a bit and people stop messing with you) and she smiles with the brightness of the twin moons shining above you. 

You meet Mimika at the back wall, and together you take in the crowd. She’s silent beside you, almost austere as she watches the writhe and chaos of the crowd. It’s noticeably quiet back here with her. Almost peaceful. You don’t smell the stink of drugs nor is she swaying in a way that suggests that she’s been drinking. It’s possible you found the one troll at this party that’s more sober than even you are.

Minutes pass. You come back to yourself, enjoying the seaside breeze against your sweaty skin. The slight buzz from your one drink is fizzling out, leaving you with a disconnected sort of melancholy. Mimika hands you a hair tie and you thank her as you finally get to tie your hair back and off your neck.

As you settle down, leaning your weight against the bricks of the hive behind you, Mimika turns to face you fully, raising one brow and smirking a little, before gesturing with a nod of her head towards the crowd, pointing at you, then shrugging her shoulders. It’s clear that she’s curious about your presence at this party.

You sigh. “Marvus,” you say simply, hoping that she knows him enough to understand. She gives you a blank look so you use your fingers to mime his horns, one twisted upright and one twisted to the side. She nods in understanding, smiling knowingly at you. 

“Do you know where he is?” you hope she finds it charming that you sound so hopeful. But she shakes her head no. She looks back at the crowd before she looks back to you. He face is so earnest, so open, that it feels almost scandalous. She points to you, slaps the back wall, then taps her wrist, miming a wrist watch. You get the feeling she wants you to stay with her for a little longer, then. 

Well, it’s not like you have any desire to get lost in the crowd again. Mimika smiles at you, seemingly glad you understood her meaning so well. She lights up some kind of cigarette; the smoke she blows into the open air is sweet and spicy, not unlike clove or cinnamon, but more floral than you can place.

Time feels like a thick jelly around you.

* * *

As the night progresses, so too do the juggalos. The dense crowd of dancers has broken off as some clowns venture off together (and you pointedly don’t watch them leave, jealousy heavy in your heart like a stone), or go around smashing stuff, or just generally break off into smaller groups to dance even more salaciously. You know you should feel embarrassed, but to be honest, you’re just a little worn out. You remember something you said to Marvus once, too sleepy to filter yourself. _ You know that feeling when you throw a party, and then everyone leaves and your house feels too big and too bright and suddenly empty? _He gave you some shit for it, but you know he understands your meaning. You wonder if maybe Marvus feels it, too. Your empty room feeling.

Your thoughts come to a halt as some juggalo starts just shaking his ass under the balcony, to much laughter above you. It might just be your imagination, but you think that’s Marvus’s distinct laugh, slow and careless and joyful as all hell. Right as your heart lightens, you hear the disgusting sound of liquor slapping against this harlequin’s fleshy- ugh! You don’t want to be thinking about this, you barely want to see it.

(Okay so maybe you’re kind of enjoying watching it. The liquor is captivating as it hugs around his hips, sparkling in the many lights of the party. And maybe this clown is kind of attractive! It is not a crime to find clowns attractive!) 

(Oh, god, you’re finding clowns attractive. You have to get the fuck out of here.)

Tearing your eyes away from the spectacle before you, you look at the balcony, scanning the faces above you. Your heart soars as you do recognize him.

“Marvus!” you call, your voice light and hopeful as you finally, finally get a real live glimpse of him. He looks down, features lighting up in the same delight that you’re feeling. 

“Marvus!” you shout, your voice fire and iron as you finally remember that you’re a little mad at him. He has the gall to look chagrined as he fades back into the crowd.

You assume he’s coming down to find you, but you know him too well to trust that he won’t get distracted on the way down.

Mimika turns to you and mimes Marvus’s horns to you, the same way you did earlier, clapping in delight. Then she laughs her silent laugh, turning you around and pushing you inside.

* * *

Marvus is suspiciously easy to find once you muscle your way in through the crowd. You hide your smile behind you hand as you take him in; he’s a born superstar, really, dancing and singing along to the music on a table under yet another disco ball. The crowd takes him in and spits him back out. Together, Marvus and the crowd dance and sing and just generally ‘get bumping.’

To try to worm your way through that crowd feels futile. Besides, Marvus is finally in your sights. All you have to do now is sit. And wait. And let Marvus come to you.

That doesn’t mean you won’t enjoy the view. You sit at the edge of a fountain, momentarily both enraptured and unsettled by the statue of a two headed troll, connected at the skulls by a twin halo of horns. The sharp tang in the air suggests that it’s not water, but spiked faygo that flows freely from their tear ducts. You let the tips of your fingers trail in the fountain for a moment- it’s absolutely freezing- then you suck the faygo from your fingers as you turn to watch your moirail.

He’s a vision; pride wells up in you at the sight of him. He’s sharp and dangerous, from his teeth to his toes. As he moves around, gyrating and moving on the table, water sparkles and dances in the light, flying wildly from the ends of his hair. _ Beautiful _ , you think. _ He’s so beautiful. _ You notice that, while his hair is wet and he’s still shirtless, his face paint looks clean and fresh. You wonder how he was sober enough to paint his face so neatly.

It’s possible you aren’t giving him enough credit. 

The song winds down; the crowd does not. Marvus disappears from your view as countless clowns and mimes and jugglers join him on tables and counters and chairs, trying to be seen through the mania of their own making. Even your seat on the faygo fountain is becoming claustrophobic.

Right as you prepare to stand and start looking for him, Marvus is beside you, his hand so light at your elbow that you almost don’t notice it.

“Let’s go home,” he says, sleepiness so heavy in his voice that it drags it down an octave.

You let him help you stand. And, in spite of yourself, you smile. 

Clown party? Crashed without incident. Moirail? Received, safe and sound. These hands? Primed for the papping of a lifetime.

* * *

Marvus leads you towards the front door, pausing in the foyer as he stares at his phone screen.

“Tch, maan,” he says. “Shit’s broken.” He thrusts his phone, screen first, towards you as if you weren’t present in the conversation that ruined it. 

“Don’t worry about it,” you turn to face him fully, smiling wickedly. “You made me walk all the way from the omniscuttlebus station to this party. I’m making you take the same trip back with me.”

“Could use your phone,” he smiles a sleepy smile back at you before moving into your space. 

“Battery’s dead. You’re shit out of luck!” you tease, leaning forward to meet him in the middle.

“Hehe, I’m not finna believe dat you’d be coming for my ass without full fucking battery,” he leans in to kiss you. His lips are soft and pliant against yours. It’s nice, really fucking nice, after a full evening of worrying about him to finally have him in your embrace. God, though, he stinks like stale alcohol and nasty jacuzzi water.

As he pulls away from your kiss, giving you this dopey love-stuck look, he runs his hands from your hips over to your ass.

“Hey-!” you shout at him. Too late- he nicks your phone from your back pocket. 

You believe you’ve just been finessed. 

“Check it out baby! Sixty-nine percent!” He shows you your phone screen, pointing at your battery charge. Unbelievably, it really is at 69%. There’s a reason you don’t want him to have your phone, and it looks like he hasn’t quite-

“Aw, lol we got the same lock-screen! Never took you for the sweet and sentimental type.” Never mind, your lock-screen has been noticed. You pull it out of his grasp before what he said hits you: his lock-screen is a picture of the two of you, too? You almost falter in your banter as the happiness floods through you.

“Sometimes I need a reminder of _why,_” you pull him forward by the arm as you sort through the coats and sweaters on a nearby coat rack, “I 'come for yo ass.’” You put on an affectation of his voice as you finally find a hoodie that looks like it might fit him. Your head whips from side to side as you look around for a passing servant, maybe, or a valet; there’s no way purples are neat enough to keep their coats from, say, the floor, or, perhaps, where ever the fuck their coats land when they take them off. But there’s nobody.

You hold the hoodie up to him as he responds, checking the size. “You come get me cause you love me, boo boo.” You blush- there’s really no way around that. The two of you haven’t really said. _ That _ word. Not to each other. Not yet. Luckily, Marvus just plows through it like he always does. “I’m your fuckin damsel in distress. The lil’ knight in you could never resist, on my messiahs. Call me troll Prince Peach.”

You take him in. Sleep finds its home in him and leaves its bags under his eyes like he’s a cheap motel. His hair is crispy and crunchy from the jacuzzi water and you don’t even want to know what else. “You’re going to be a mess once the exhaustion finally hits you. I think you’re more like Fiona this time.” You start trying to force him into the hoodie, his horns getting caught on the neck hole and his hair just generally giving you both a hard time. He takes his hoodie off and you let him borrow your hair tie.

“That makes you... what? Fucking troll Shrek or sumn?” he says as he ties up his hair. There’s a beat of silence between the two of you before you both dissolve into laughter together.

* * *

The lyft pulls up minutes after you step outside. You don’t think you’ll ever stop being thankful for self-driving cars; even if Marvus could remember any of his drivers’ names, you wouldn’t want to deal with their presence tonight. 

It seems to hit Marvus all at once that the hoodie you’d, uh, _ borrowed _ from the coat rack isn’t his.

“Shh,” you shoosh him. “I didn’t want you to be cold. You were shirtless, wet, and it’s the middle of the night.” Though there’s no one around to hear you, you keep your voice low.

He settles down pretty quickly after that, wrapped up cozy warm in his hoodie and in your arms. His head leans on you, slowly growing heavier, as you pet his hair down. You have to shove down your disgust at how crunchy and gross his hair is.

But it’s easy, when he’s like this. You watch his slow, even breathing as he sleeps on you. A little bit of drool escapes from his mouth, and you use this stranger’s hoodie to wipe it away. Street lights pass and fade over his face as you drive on the empty highway to his hive. His eyelashes are so long; it hits you all at once that Marvus is only a sweep older than you. He’s still so young.

He wraps his arms tighter around you as you trace the shape of his face paint, trailing your fingers lighter than dew drops around his diamonds. 

“Pale for you,” you murmur as you lean in to kiss him on the temple.

“Chix…” he slurs in his sleep, too drained to know if he’s awake or dreaming or somewhere in between.

It’s just like him to party until he can’t anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to get to Marvus. Get ready for some real fluff (and some more clownery) in the next chapter!


End file.
